


Prisoner of the Sun

by MizJoely



Series: SherlollyPrompts [22]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform, Vamp!lock, Vamplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-08-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 09:03:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11917605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: He's been in the cold, stone cell for months now, alone, just him and his thoughts and the sun creeping across the damp stone floor. It's nearly the Summer Solstice; on that day, the little sliver of shadow in which he huddles will vanish, and he'll be dead.





	Prisoner of the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> From a tumblr prompt: Prisoners of the sun

He's been in the cold, stone cell for months now, alone, just him and his thoughts and the sun creeping across the damp stone floor. It's nearly the Summer Solstice; on that day, the little sliver of shadow in which he huddles will vanish, and he'll be dead.

It's ingenious, he'll give his captors that much; mental torture to add to the physical discomforts he's suffering - hunger, thirst, burning heat by day and freezing cold by night. Even someone like himself, with enhanced senses and physical stamina, isn't immune to the effects of starvation and sleep deprivation…and, loath though he is to admit it, loneliness.

He spends a great deal of time in his Mind Palace, at least during the night when he doesn't need to pay close attention to the sun's approach. During the night he can pace, he can stretch out, he can make futile attempt after futile attempt to dislodge the silver-laced bars that make up the entire front of his prison from the stone walls to which they're so frustratingly attached. His hands burn, then heal, then burn again with every attempt he makes. And as time passes, the healing slows, falters, until finally he gives up, too weak from lack of sustenance for his body to completely heal itself.

He needs blood.

He bares his fangs at the night sky, watching as the stars begin to vanish, one by one, along with the darkness. Another day of torture, another day of wondering if it wouldn't be best to simply take matters into his own hands and roll out of the shadow and choose his own time of death. He's never allowed anyone to dictate his actions before, why start now?

He's distracted from his bleak thoughts by the sound of furtive movement on the ledge outside his prison. He raises his head, more weakly than alertly, but hopes he gives the illusion of being stronger than he actually is as he forces himself into a sitting position.

He waits, but the noises have stopped, although he can clearly hear the person just out of sight breathing heavily. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath; he can smell sweat and fear and the sweet, sweet scent of blood. His mouth waters and his fangs elongate into feeding mode and he curses silently. Is this his newest torture, to be allowed to smell and hear the possibility of salvation, only for it to be kept just out of reach?

When he's about given up, when he's ready to sink back into lethargy, the person moves again. His eyes snap open, and he sees her. Young, healthy, a strong heartbeat, the blood roaring in her veins. Abstractly he notes that her cinammon-colored hair is pinned up in neat braids, that her eyes are enormous and brown, that her perfect white teeth nibble anxiously at her lower lip, that her clothes are worn but carefully mended, and that her figure is slender beneath the oversized tunic and skirts.

She stops far closer to the bars than is good for her; had he even half his depleted strength he could easily lunge out and pull her to him. The silver would burn, but her blood would sustain him long enough to escape.

It's a bitter fantasy, one he would never entertain were he back in his clan's territories, where there are more than enough willing blood-sharers for every vampire. "What are you doing here?" he rasps instead, shoving the starvation-fueled impulse away. "Come to taunt me before the Solstice?"

There's no answer, not from her throat at least; instead he hears the distinct sound of a lock being opened. "Your brother sent me," she says when he pulls himself to his feet and staggers toward the now-open gate. She speaks in low whispers and looks nervously over her shoulder every few seconds. "I've drugged the guards, and they shouldn't be missed until the morning, but you still need to hurry."

He takes a moment to study her, seeing the quiet resolve in her eyes as well as the slight tremble that betrays her fear - fear of being caught, certainly, but also fear of how he might react. If Mycroft sent her, then she's from their own lands and therefore knows the dangers of exposing herself to a vampire starved for blood. There are no bites on her throat or wrists, so she's not a blood-sharer. The tribal tattoo she bears on her forearm - a snarling feline - is that of his captors, but he can see that it's freshly applied and therefore meant only as camoflage.

Besides, he can think of no reason for her to lie to him; if she wants to do him harm, then all she has to do is wait a few more days until the sun burns him to a pile of ash. So he allows her to lead him down the winding mountain path, resting his arm on her thin shoulders until they reach the first unconscious guard.

He hears her gasp as he rips the man's throat out, guzzling down the hot, life-sustaining blood until there's barely a drop left in his body. He stares up at the girl, blood dripping from his chin, gauging her reaction, nodding sharply when he sees that she's composed herself as he fed. "What's your name?" he asks as he jumps lightly to his feet, feeling better than he has in nearly half a year.

She gives a him a wary look before answering. "Molly. Molly Hooper. And you're Sherlock Holmes, the Clan Leader's missing brother." She tries a small smile as he wipes his face clean with a rag torn from the dead man's tunic. "You need to go. There are caves to the west; if you run you can get to them before full sunrise. They won't look for you there, since they'll be expecting you to go southeast, to get back home."

"What about you?" he asks, not sure why he's so troubled by the fact that she doesn't seem to plan to go with him.

She shrugs. "I'm not fast enough to travel with a vampire, I'd only hold you back. And I don't count, you're the one that's important, that needs to get home safely."

Anger rushes over him like a hot wave. "Who told you that, Mycroft? Oh no, Molly Hooper, you do count. You risked your life to save mine and that's worth a thousand of me, the idiot who got himself captured by a bunch of humans because he was too arrogant to bring a daytime guard while out wandering in unknown territory."

He steps closer to her; she jerks back in surprise when he grabs her wrist. "What, what are you doing?" she stutters, eyes wide and apprehensive - but not for herself, only for him, as her next words prove. "Let me go, you're just wasting time…"

"No." With that, he swings her into his arms and peers down the steep side of the lower cliff at which the guard was posted. "Keeping you alive is hardly a waste of time."

Before she can protest again, he's jumped, holding her tightly, enjoying the feel of her arms around his neck and shoulders, her face pressed against him, her heart thumping wildly against his chest. He lands not as lightly as he would like, but only stumbles a bit - and, more importantly, doesn't drop her. "Hold on tight," he whispers against the top of her head. "I'm going to run now, we're going to get to those caves together - and we're going home together. Got it?"

"Yes," she replies softly, peeking up at him with a shy smile.

He smiles back, then he runs, racing daylight for the promised safety of the western caves…and looks forward to learning more about his brave little human woman once they arrive there.


End file.
